


Still Fighting

by orphan_account



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, New Year's Eve, POV Mickey, a little angsty, but hopefull
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 05:04:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13228644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Mickey and Ian celebrate their first New Year's Eve together as a couple.





	Still Fighting

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little something for the new year.
> 
> Post 5x12, no breakup, no prison.

Mickey leans in close to Ian and feels around for his gloved hand. It’s fucking freezing out here. Lake Michigan gleams in front of them, reflecting the thousands of glittering lights that make up the Chicago skyline. Their breath creates clouds of wispy, white vapor in the single-digit air mass that’s swept in and blanketed the bustling city with three feet of snow over the past week. Mickey, for his part, has no idea why anyone would subject themselves to this kind of torture, but Ian had wanted to come out here, so here they are.

It’s New Year’s Eve, their first as a real couple, as Ian insists on reminding him, and the redhead had wanted to do _something_ , and since getting shit-faced like any self-respecting human being was out, they'd come out to fucking Lake Michigan instead, to count down the last ten seconds of the year or whatever and watch the goddamn Navy Pier fireworks.

They’d arrived pretty late and had therefore been a ways away from the water, but a few well-placed elbows, death-glares, and "fuck offs" from Mickey and they’re now leaning against the railing, with thousands of people hemming them in on the other three sides. He hates it. He hates people and noise and laughter and lights. But he’s here, for Ian.

Mickey’d never really given much thought to New Year’s before. It usually meant getting a little drunker than usual, puking his guts out, and waking up with an epic hangover the next day. He never once had made a New Year’s resolution or contemplated the events of the previous year. Never thought about his life, or where he wanted to be in a year from then. But now, he can’t help thinking about it.

Because last year, he’d been at those abandoned buildings, drinking, and getting stoned, until he could no longer feel or think or remember who he was.  Until all memory of his sham of a wedding was forgotten, of Ian’s determinedly apathetic face as he told Mickey about his plans to leave. Until he forgot about his father, about Svetlana, about his unborn child, about Ian, Ian, Ian… Of everything he’d lost, of that shred of happiness that for a few ridiculous months he’d so stupidly thought could be his, of how fucked, how utterly and completely fucked he was. He drank and snorted and smoked until he forgot about how some nights he fingered that shiny Ruger and thought about doing _it_ …

“Mick.”

Mickey is shaken out of his reverie and he turns to look at Ian beside him. This guy is the flip side of his dark thoughts. Ian. It hasn’t been all fucking sunshine and rainbows (well, maybe some rainbows); to the contrary it’s been pretty hard. Mickey’s spent hours pouring over hundreds, if not thousands, of web-pages on bipolar, mania and depression. He’s got the fucking Mayo clinic and WebMD bookmarked on his shitty laptop. He’s familiar with the 50+ side effects of Lithium. He’s pretty well acquainted with Depakote, Seroquel, Abilify, Wellbutrin, Prozac, Lamictal, and Olanzapine as well, just to name a few. He’s quoting risks and side effects to shit he didn’t know existed a few months ago. He’s been to psychiatrists, psychologists, and therapists, things he’d never thought he’d do. He’s bullied his way into appointments when there are really no slots available. He’s “negotiating” discounts at fucking pharmacies when such things don’t really exist…

He used to be that shithead who laughed at depression and various other mental health issues, because who the fuck had the choice to be depressed? Now, he’s the guy who beats people up for saying shit about mental illness and psychiatric patients or some poor fucker who has no idea who or even what he is. Because he fucking knows better. He knows the shit’s not voluntary and is certainly not a laughing matter. That your head works against you and it fucking sucks and your whole life spins out of control and you’re drowning in your own thoughts and you don’t know what’s real and what’s fake anymore. At least that’s what Ian’s told him, the few times he’s talked about the actual disease.

So, yeah, it hasn’t been smooth sailing. But it hasn’t been all bad and it’s infinitely better than last year, for both of them. And the new year is looking pretty damn good right now.

“Just another minute,” Ian says, his teeth chattering slightly.

People start counting down around them. At first, it’s a mess of numbers, but by twenty seconds, the crowd’s found a groove and it’s a steady stream of numbers being called out.

_19, 18, 17, 16…_

He has no idea if it’s even the right time, but it’s their time right now, and he finds himself counting along in his head, gazing up into Ian’s eyes which are sparkling down at him.

_12, 11, 10, 9…_

Everyone else is fading away and Mickey feels Ian’s arms slip around his waist so he moves to do the same.

_6, 5, 4, 3…_

It’s fucking freezing and their breath is clouding up the foot or so between them and Mickey knows what Ian wants to do and he wants to do the same…

_2, 1…0_

Their lips meet, desperate at first, with lots of tongue and teeth, but then steadily, almost leisurely, tongues dancing, mouths moving in rhythm, and then gently, with just the slightest pressure, barely touching, really just breathing into each other.

And he doesn’t know how it happens, but then he’s holding Ian, who’s crying on his shoulder. He can hear the fireworks going off, and the cheering of the hordes around them, but that’s all distant, as if in another room or city or state and it’s just him and Ian.

“Been such a shitty year, Mick,” he hears Ian whisper against his shabby winter jacket.

“Yeah, it has been,” he whispers back, one of his hands making it’s way up to cradle Ian’s neck. “But it’s gonna get better. This year’s gonna be fucking good. It better be, or I’m gonna be filing some complaints with whoever runs this goddamn thing.”

And Ian’s shoulders are shaking again, but this time he’s laughing and when he looks up, his eyes are bright and and full of fucking life; something that’s been missing for most of the year. Mickey pulls a glove off and wipes at the tear tracks on the redhead’s pale, freckled cheeks, catching them just as they’re about to freeze.

Then he joins in Ian’s laughter and suddenly they’re just two Chicago teenagers, out enjoying New Year’s Eve together, not two South Side fuck-ups, forced to grow up fast, who have been through hell and back a couple of times together and seen more shit most of the assholes around them ever will in their lifetime. And maybe they’re the latter, but the former too, if that’s possible.

Mickey doesn’t know if it’s possible for them to be normal, to have a normal relationship, to do normal things that other couples do, to not be fighting every minute of every fucking day for one thing or another. But it’s okay. They’re still fighting and that’s what matters. They haven’t given up, on life, on each other, on getting better, on moving on. And for as long as they have one another, they’ll keep fighting. It’s what they do best, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Short and sweet. Might be a little overkill at the end, but...whatever.
> 
> Thank you for reading! <3


End file.
